


A Rock And A Hard Place

by PlaneJane



Category: Jumper (2008), The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-18
Updated: 2011-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-24 18:15:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlaneJane/pseuds/PlaneJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus Aquila works for a branch of Special Ops called Task Force Jump. When, by chance, he spots the elusive Jumper, Griffin O'Conner, in a supermarket, he can't believe his luck. But when Marcus tries to capture him without weapons or back-up, he gets them both into a mess only Griffin can get them out of. The problem is, Griffin is in no fit state to help Marcus, let alone himself. And even if he could, why would he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Rock And A Hard Place

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [进退两难（译）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7057768) by [MisterJie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisterJie/pseuds/MisterJie)



> Thank you, Ladytiferet, for the inspiration and the art. ♥

  
[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/planejane/pic/000atq5d/)   


At first, Marcus thinks it’s too good to be true, then swiftly changes his mind and thinks this is the worst thing that could have happened to his Friday night. The slight young man in the ‘15 Items Or Less’ queue, with the mop of sandy hair and angular features, doesn’t see him. Marcus could leave and pretend their paths never crossed, or he could do something. He edges out of the supermarket, shrugging up his collar as he makes his way out into a frosty night.

Given the wealth of places the average Jumper could go at will, it’s amazing to Marcus the predictability of their haunts. They’re no less creatures of habit than anyone else. That makes them easy enough to find, if not so easy to secure and deliver. And Task Force Jump wants Jumpers taken alive. They’re no good to them dead.

However, the next two days were meant to belong to Marcus and tonight he’s in the mood for a different kind of action. With a packet of condoms, some sachets of lube and cash in his back pocket, he was all ready to score some tight little twink arse and spend the weekend in a post-orgasmic haze.

Marcus deliberates the possibility he could have this Jumper in the bag and still have time over for some fun. He’s new to the team and has to prove his worth. This is the ideal opportunity. He sighs and slinks into the shadows to wait.

The man in the supermarket is called Griffin. Marcus recognises him from the pictures he saw in his last debrief: his face, his agitated stance and his black leather jacket. It’s definitely him. He’s notorious for pushing his jumping abilities to their limits and for killing Paladins. Task Force Jump is only interested in him for the former.

Without a weapon, a stunner or as much as a rope, Marcus isn’t going to stand a chance of securing Griffin unless he can knock him out cold. There’s a tow rope in his car. If Marcus can keep Griffin tied up, he might be able to transport him back to base where they can secure him in one of their new electrified cells.

Marcus settles on a plan of action. If Griffin comes around this side to jump, Marcus is going to attempt to catch him. If he doesn’t then he’ll pretend he never saw him at all. Marcus takes a final look around. It’s quiet—there's no one else around. And Marcus has a very tidy right hook.

*

Griffin’s throat hurts so much he can hardly swallow. He bags the last of the items from his basket—Night Nurse and Lucozade—and hands over cash. Hooking the carrier bag handle over his wrist, he almost walks away from the cashier without his change—too preoccupied and dizzy with the aching need to crawl into bed and curl up there until this bug passes.

The sharp night air claws into Griffin’s bones. He clutches his bag tighter and scans the exit and the car park. His jump site is around the side of the building, where it’s dark and undisturbed. No one’s watching him but his skin crawls and tingles, and a wave of nausea slows his progress.

Griffin blinks slow and heavy and breathes in deep. Usually it’s no effort to jump, as long as he has the momentum. His default setting’s usually two notches higher than manic and that always gets him where he wants to go—except tonight. The sweat bristles down his back. He’s not sure if he’s burning or freezing.

Poising himself for flight, Griffin digs deep for the energy to jump back to The Lair. Only, at that exact moment, Griffin also hears the grind of a boot on the pavement, sees a flash of a fist and that’s it—he falls.

“Fuck.”

Griffin’s head hits the deck and his head instantly feels like his brain is trying to thump its way out of his skull. He can’t move his jaw and all he can see from where he’s lying is a pair of black boots. He doesn’t get the chance to look up, as someone’s grabbing his hair and pulling him up by a fistful. Griffin knows how this is going to end if he doesn’t force his aching limbs to do something—fast.

It hurts, it really fucking hurts, but Griffin twists his body over and he might have lost that whole handful of hair doing it but it gives him enough leverage to lift up his leg and kick the motherfucker in the balls. That was the plan, anyway.

Only he misses.

As he’s being hauled up off the floor by his hair, Griffin shouldn’t be thinking it but he’s ill and out of control. _“I’m just like fucking Dorothy,”_ sings through his mind before wishing for home.

There’s the familiar rush, faster than a heartbeat, before Griffin’s face meets the ground again.

*

Marcus hits Griffin hard and he doesn’t expect him to get up. When he does, Marcus grabs his hair in an instinctual attempt to slam his face down again and finish the job. But Marcus realises too late, Griffin’s too fast, and only needed the slightest give to move.

Griffin’s jumping—with Marcus in tow. The next second is a blinding rush of light and wind. Marcus is still in the midst of trying to smash Griffin’s head into floor when they catapult like lightning to God alone knows where.

Griffin’s head hits concrete, but not outside Sainsbury’s. Marcus stands up, sucks in a breath of dry, dusty air and rubs his eyes. Griffin’s out cold on the floor, his shopping bag still hooked around his wrist, a sluggish pool of blood spreading out from his head. He’s not moving, except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He’s breathing sounds laboured; quietly wheezy. Griffin is quick and dangerous, and Marcus needs to find something to restrain him before he comes around.

Marcus scans his surroundings for threats and for anything he can use to his advantage. He’s in what looks like an underground stone room, a tomb: a concrete box, covered with pictures. There are computers, a fridge, a bed, a chair. It takes a matter of seconds to work out that this is probably Griffin’s hideout. Marcus has struck gold. He looks for the entrance, exit, door, whatever it might be, and sees the room slope out directly into a pitch black night. When Marcus steps out onto sand his heart skips a beat. He walks a few steps and his suspicion is confirmed. The moon and starlight illuminate the desert sand: an undulating blanket of indigo. It stretches to the horizon in every direction.

Marcus runs back inside and opens his phone. No signal.

Griffin is lying on the floor, on his side like a foetus, with one arm flung out behind him and one curled up to his chin, just as he was a minute ago. He looks deathly pale, for someone who lives in ... Marcus wonders where they are. The Gobi? The Sahara?

The computers are locked. His phone doesn’t work. They’re in the middle of a desert.

Marcus’ feeling of triumph vanishes. He’s trapped and Griffin is his only way out.

When he crouches down and takes a closer look at Griffin, Marcus is worried. If Griffin dies, Marcus will surely die, too.

As Marcus lifts Griffin and lays him down on the bed, he notices two things. First, Griffin is hot, frighteningly, feverishly hot. Second, he’s pissed himself.

*

From a dark corner of his mind, Griffin’s aware that he’s being man-handled. He’d quite like to be able to open his eyes and nut the fucker. Only his eyes won’t open and more than that his teeth hurt. His head hurts, his throat hurts and every bone in his body feels like it’s sprouted needles, piercing into his muscles and out through his skin.

It’s hard to breathe but that’s all Griffin can think about—sucking in air that doesn’t quite fill his lungs. His body is screaming for it. He doesn’t know if he’s hot or cold. He doesn’t know if he’s awake or in the middle of a dream, or something in between.

At one point, Griffin thinks he might be choking. Someone’s trying to choke him. He bites down hard and can’t help grinning because he’s pretty sure he bit the bastard’s finger off. It didn’t stop whoever it is that’s got him pouring something down his throat. It tastes like water but it could be poison. Truth serum. Something to take away his super-powers. No more jumping. Imagine that. He’s done that often enough—thought about what it would have been like to be normal. Mum. Dad. Maybe some friends along the way. Girlfriend. Boyfriend. Never really been fussed either way. Someone who gives a shit about him. A house. A real fucking house in a street, with a front door and a path that goes somewhere.

Somewhere that isn’t nowhere.

Griffin gave up crying about it years ago. Now he just goes off on one. He shoots a Paladin, drowns another. He fucks the motherfuckers and steals their weapons. Griffin can steal a car, a bike, a plane, and sky rocket through a stone wall if he likes. No one can stop him, no one ever has. Not even that wanker can tie him down.

Griffin’s done it all and he’s still here—but maybe not for much longer—finally beaten by the flu and a sex pervert.

Whoever’s got him has tied his wrists and taken his clothes off. Griffin knows he’s been cleaned up; he felt the swipe of a wet cloth over his fever-sensitive skin. But he doesn’t know why. The pervert hasn’t done anything obscene.

Griffin’s still having trouble opening his eyes. One eye especially. It hurts like a fucking bitch.

Hurts, hurts, hurts. Everything, everywhere, hurts.

*

Griffin sleeps for a few hours, the hoarse wheeze of his breathing punctuated only by the occasional groan and whimper. Marcus uses the time to take a look around. What he sees doesn’t marry well with what he was told in his debrief.

This cavern is where Griffin lives—it’s his space. In amongst the surveillance and the evidence of Griffin’s constant monitoring of the Paladin, are books, comics, games and _knickknacks._ The entire place is stuffed with an eclectic array of maps, hand-launch missiles, trinkets and daily necessities: a juxtaposition of the deadly and the comforts of a makeshift home.

Marcus can’t open the safe. He expects that’s where Griffin keeps his weapons. Everything else, though, is there for Marcus to pore over, to examine and catalogue. With time on his hands, this is his chance to find out all about the most elusive and most successful Jumper alive. He takes a few photographs with his phone, mostly of the computers and the intel Griffin has of the Paladin. The sooner they can be erased from the picture, the better. And Griffins’ intel is probably better than anything Task Force Jump has.

The antique chest of drawers is full of brand new clothes, unworn, most still in the packaging. Griffin apparently doesn’t do laundry out here in the desert, and doesn’t waste his time taking it elsewhere. He simply replaces the things he’s used.

Marcus thumbs through the titles on the bookshelf, the videos and the computer games, as if he can make some sort of analysis of Griffin’s personality based on his taste in literature and entertainment. What good it will do is anyone’s guess. Marcus read many of the same books as Phillip Garrido and he’s not a kidnapper, a molester, an abuser. (He chooses to ignore the nagging voice that tells him he’s not that far from it). What’s more telling than all those things is the biscuit tin in the top drawer of the chest of drawers. Marcus knows he shouldn’t look but justifies it as reconnaissance. Anything and everything could be useful.

Inside the tin there’s a red matchbox car, some Pokemon cards and a photo of a couple with a small boy. He guesses it to be Griffin and his parents—when they were still alive.

Marcus swallows the lump in his throat and tells himself not to get sentimental. Griffin can’t continue to live lawlessly like this. Task Force Jump can give him purpose and direction. Marcus only has to try to convince him of it. When Griffin recovers sufficiently they can jump back to civilisation and Griffin’s chance at a new life. That’s the general idea of Marcus’ quickly hashed together back-up plan for the mess he’s got himself in. Unfortunately, it sounds like a con, a trick. Because that’s what it is.

Marcus sits on the edge of the bed and frets. He managed to get Griffin to swallow a mouthful of Night Nurse, but he’s still burning up. Clothed only in clean underwear, Griffin’s skin is clammy and hot. Marcus wets the flannel with water from the cooler and mops the beads of sweat from Griffin’s forehead, from the back of his neck and the dip at the bottom of his sternum.

The injured side of Griffin’s face is clean, and it’s not swelling any further. He’ll have a nasty bruise but Marcus is confident nothing is broken: not his jaw, his nose or his skull.

Marcus should try to sleep, but he daren’t risk it. If Griffin gets worse he could have convulsions, he could choke on his tongue. If, by some miracle, he wakes up feeling better, he could strangle Marcus in his sleep.

There’s a bean bag stuffed under the work station. Marcus pulls it out and sets it by the head end of the bed. Griffin is shivering, his face screwed up into a pained frown. Marcus pulls up the sheet and the quilt and tucks it around him, his fingers lingering too long on Griffin’s skin. Only then does Marcus wriggle himself a dip in the beanbag and settle down.

Marcus decides he’ll just rest, while Griffin is asleep, unconscious; he isn’t entirely convinced which it is at this point. He’s close enough he can hear every laboured inhale and exhale of air in and out of Griffin’s lungs. If anything changes, Marcus will hear it. And so, he rests his head on the corner of the bed and pushes his fingers between Griffin’s cheek and the mattress. If Griffin moves, Marcus will feel it.

Marcus closes his eyes and says a prayer that Griffin doesn’t get any sicker.

*

Griffin wakes up to the sound of soft snoring close to his face—his face that feels like someone smashed it into a stone slab.

Oh, yeah, that’s right. _They did._

Griffin cracks open the eye that doesn’t feel like it’s swollen to the size of an egg and sees him—the sex-pervert-snorer. He’s no Sleeping Beauty. He’s not bad looking though, all things considered. Griffin thinks he might fuck him, before he kills him.

First things first, though. How to untie his hands? And, what the fuck? The sex pervert has his fingers tucked up under Griffin’s cheek.

Resisting the urge to bite a big chunk out of the sex pervert’s hand, Griffin slides away from him, across the bed. And promptly falls off.

It appears his legs aren’t cooperating and his head is still throbbing like a porn star’s cock. Griffin hacks out a wet cough the same moment the sex pervert wakes up, eyes all puffy and blinking, like he’s just had a Sunday afternoon nap after a nice big roast and two helpings of spotted dick and custard.

“Nice.” Griffin’s voice is raspy and so quiet he can hardly hear himself. Still, he tries to bark out, “Fucking lovely. Sleep well did we? Feeling _refreshed?”_

“Griffin. I’m sorry about your face. God, you look and sound awful.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to be such a disappointment to you. I thought you were only interested in my arse. Bad news—I’ve got flu—so unless you want to catch it too, I’d avoid putting your dick near any of my mucus membranes.”

The sex pervert has the audacity to scowl. He actually looks affronted. Even feeling like shit, Griffin manages to laugh about it. Until he realises the sex pervert knows his name. In fact, Griffin realises he might have been unconscious for a while, and the sex pervert’s probably been snooping about the whole time, or at least until he decided to cosy up with Griffin and fall asleep. Ugh. Griffin hopes the pervert didn’t wank over him.

Griffin blurts out, without thought, “Fuckshit. Gross. Is that why you took my clothes off?”

The pervert looks confused for a moment and says, “Um, actually, you were burning up, and you ... lost control of your bladder. It’s my fault. I didn’t know you were ill when I tried to...”

 _“What?”_

“Um, that came out wrong. I mean, I never should have hit you at all.” The sex pervert took a deep breath. “I just didn’t want you to jump ... and I ... It was a lapse in judgement.”

“You’re damn fucking right. Listen, do you mind? I wouldn’t mind some clothes. There are some in the dresser. Oh, and who the fuck are you, by the way, if you don’t mind me asking? Cause, you know, I quite like to know that stuff before I finish people off.”

Griffin attempts to pull himself up, to make the point that he’s still in with a fighting chance, even though he isn’t fancying the odds. The sex pervert’s big, tall and as the left side Griffin’s face will attest to, he packs a punch.

“Sorry. I’m Marcus. I ... um ... well.”

Griffin sways and it’s mostly by luck his backside hits the bed. He wants to lie down—the room’s swimming, he feels shivery hot and he thinks he’s going to throw up.

Marcus shoots up out of the bean bag and eases Griffin down and Griffin feels too weak to resist it. He hates himself for it, and for the first time in forever he feels like he might cry. The fight’s all but left him and it’s not fucking fair. He wasn’t even going to go to Sainsbury’s except he wanted someone, anyone to just say something. _You don’t look well, pet. Do you have someone to take care of you?_

Griffin closes his eyes and it’s a huge mistake because a tear squeezes out of his puffy eye. He feels it burn down the side of his face and trickle into his ear. He makes a weak attempt to kick out his legs, but his wrists are tied up to the bed frame and his stomach is rolling and trembling inside and he feels like he’s dying. He ought to care, he does care.

Then he feels Marcus pulling up the covers and pushing back his hair and that does it. He lets out a sob—like a fucking baby.

*

Marcus changes his mind about everything the moment Griffin collapses onto the bed. Not out of pity, but empathy, because Marcus knows exactly how Griffin feels. He _knows_ that point, when you can’t take any more, when all your strength is gone. He rubs at his scarred thigh and remembers.

Sitting on the side of the bed, watching Griffin shivering and his Adam’s apple shooting madly up and down as if he’s trying to swallow back more tears, Marcus finally sees what’s really going on around him. He recalls watching a child licking the glass display cabinet in the Godiva shop in the local shopping mall, in a futile attempt to get to the chocolates beyond the glass. Right now, Marcus is on the other side of the glass, he’s here; not only can he touch and taste what Task Force Jump so desperately covets, but for a fleeting moment he was a part of it.

Task Force Jump won’t use the Jumpers to fetch and carry as they would have their operatives like Marcus believe; they’ll manipulate the Jumpers to harness their power, to isolate it and have it for themselves. If Marcus tells Griffin who he is, Griffin will realise right away what Marcus stands for and he’ll never agree to come in with him of his own free will. Marcus can see it already; Task Force Jump will never tame Griffin, they’ll never have his cooperation. And what right do they have to take Griffin’s freedom away under duress?

Marcus can’t help but admire Griffin’s tenacity. No matter how things unfold from here on out, he comes to the decision he will take no part in capturing Griffin, at least not while he’s so very ill, vulnerable. The fact he’s attractive, in an edgy, dangerous and thrilling kind of way, has nothing to do with anything; nor does Marcus’ overriding desire to take care of him.

Marcus reaches forward and unlocks the cuffs. He takes Griffin’s wrists in his hands and rubs the blood back through them. Griffin doesn’t resist, doesn’t try to hit or punch or flinch away. Marcus says seriously, “Griffin, you’re very ill.”

“No shit, Batman.” His chest rattles as he hacks out a cough.

“I think you need to see a doctor. Maybe you should be in a hospital.”

“No.”

“Listen, I’m not a Paladin.”

“I know _that.”_ Griffin’s face contorts, and Marcus can see he wants to say something else. It takes a long moment for Griffin to add, “How do you know about the Paladin? Who are you?”

Marcus determined it would be a mistake to tell Griffin the truth but the words spill out unbidden. “I work for a Special Ops Unit that wants to capture Jumpers. They want to find out how you open the Jump wormholes. They’re offering quite lucrative benefits to Jumpers who want to offer themselves up to help with the research.”

Griffin barks out a laugh followed by another cough that has him gasping for breath and doubling over, clutching at his chest. Marcus pulls him up to sitting and rubs his back. Griffin is deathly pale, except for a slight splash of pink on the tops of his cheeks. If his lips start turning blue he’s in serious trouble. Marcus doesn’t want to wait to see that happen.

When he has enough breath to speak again, Griffin asks, “How many Jumpers do you have so far?”

“None.”

Marcus is relieved to see a weak smile. Griffin whispers, “I thought you were a mugger at first, or a rapist.”

Putting his hands up in a gesture of surrender, Marcus smiles too. “Hey, look at me. I don’t need to rob anyone, or force anyone to have sex with me.”

“No, I don’t expect you do.” Griffin slumps back down and his eyes look heavy, all traces of good humour vanishing with a pall of exhaustion.

Marcus needs to get him out of here, and it isn’t just his own sense of self-preservation that drives him to persist. “You need medical attention.”

“It’s just flu. I’ve got some Lucozade.”

“Griffin,” Marcus presses, clasping Griffins wrist, “there’s no food here except crisps. You’re down to your last cooler of water. You’ve got a couple of days, tops, before you need to restock.” Marcus hasn’t wanted to say it for fear it might be true but Griffin doesn’t seem to understand. “If you have swine flu you could be deathly ill for at least another week. Even young, healthy people like you have been wiped out by it.”

Griffin looks away and says softly, “You just want a way out of here.”

“Of course I do.”

“If I get us out of here you’ll turn me in to your Special Ops people.”

“If you get us out of here, I’ll take care of you until you’re well. I won’t tell anyone about you—you have my word.”

“Piss off.”

Griffin rolls onto his side and shuts his eyes.

It’s evident this tactic won’t work. Marcus can’t do a bloody thing except try to keep Griffin alive. If Griffin refuses to trust him—which is hardly a surprise—then Marcus will have to find a way to take care of him in his hideout.

Or think of a way to persuade him to leave that he won’t refuse.

*

Griffin is tired but he can’t sleep. Marcus got up from the bed and is rooting about the Lair. It pains Griffin to realise he wanted him to stay close, though he’d never say it out loud. It hurts to breathe and Griffin can’t deny the gurgle of panic that sits in his gut, churning over and over and making him feel like he’s on the verge of throwing up. He tries to move his chest slowly, heaving in a breath that stabs its way into his lungs but doesn’t fill them.

Opening his eyes, Griffin hopes to see Marcus pacing the floor, worrying for a way to negotiate his way out of this mess. Only Marcus is nowhere to be seen and even through the fog of fever and the distraction of pain, Griffin knows he’s in as much of a mess, if not more, than Marcus. Marcus is Special Ops. He could resort to torture to force Griffin into a jump. From the way the side of his face aches, Griffin knows the man is no stranger to violence as a means of getting what he wants. When gentle persuasion fails, who knows what tactics he has up his sleeve?

Worn down from pain, discomfort and overwhelming exhaustion, Griffin closes his eyes, grips the edge of his pillow and contemplates the consequences of giving in. The Paladin would have him dead. These Special Ops people would have him caged up like a lab rat. He’d rather die. But Marcus gave him his word, a life for a life. Of course he’d say anything to get out of here. Griffin’s thoughts swing back and forth from defiance to acquiescence. If Griffin dies here, in his Lair, then Marcus will too. But Griffin doesn’t want to die, and neither does Marcus.

Griffin falls asleep. For how long he isn’t sure. When he awakes, the strip lights are off and a dusky natural light fills the Lair. Marcus is back beside him on the bean bag, surrounded by the cooler, the crisps, the bag of supplies from Sainsbury’s and a determined look. Griffin pushes himself up to sit. His head’s swimming and his whole body is shaking.

“I need a drink.”

Marcus hands over his red ‘I ♥ Paris’ coffee mug. His voice is all business. “This is it. Four litres of water, a bottle of Lucozade, two bags of crisps and, by the looks of it, outside there’s enough fuel to run your generator for another four days.”

Griffin drinks greedily. “Looks like we’re both fucked then. Unless I get us out of here.”

“Looks like it.” Marcus pauses before asking, “How does this jumping thing work? Do you have to be moving?” He asks almost casually, like he doesn’t care for the answer.

Griffin bristles. “Yeah. I need some momentum.”

“And can you go anywhere you like?”

“As long as I know the place, have a feel for it.”

“So you could take us back to Sainsbury’s and I could take you back to my flat. You’d be safe there.”

Oh, so that’s his plan; lure Griffin back to his flat under the pretext of _looking after him,_ then the next thing Griffin knows, Special Ops have him. Griffin might be feeling like death warmed up, like his head’s been spun in a blender, but he wasn’t born fucking yesterday. And to think he was softening up to this Marcus bloke.

As best as he can, Griffin snipes, “Or I could take you to the middle of Loch Ness, drop you off and be back here in three seconds flat.”

“Great. I’m a really good swimmer.”

There’s fear in Marcus’ eyes though his voice gives nothing away. He’s up to something. Griffin can’t keep up. It’s not a bad idea, to jump somewhere he can ditch Marcus, somewhere far away. The problem is, Griffin isn’t sure he has the energy to pull off two jumps in a row, and if takes them to the middle of a lake it’s likely he’s the only one who’s going drown.

Marcus stands up and unscrews the lid off the cooler bottle. Before Griffin can process, can drive his protesting limbs into motion, Marcus steps back and turns the bottle upside down. Water glugs out of the upturned neck in loud gulps. Griffin watches dumbstruck, as it splashes and pools over the floor. He tries to propel forward, but it’s useless. Marcus throws the bottle down, steps forward and pushes Griffin down onto his back, pinning him with his palm on Griffin’s chest.

“It’s now or never, Griffin. Get us out of here.”

The paltry amount of air that was keeping Griffin from passing out, whooshes from his chest and for a few seconds he has to fight against the flashing colours dancing in front of his eyes.

Griffin feels his eyes roll up in his head, the reaction beyond his control, just as Marcus pulls him up again, into his arms. He can’t breathe, he can’t fight.

“Now or never,” Marcus growls into his ear. “We have to leave.”

Griffin is trembling, and he can’t stop himself fisting Marcus’ jacket. “All right.”

“I’ll help you get dressed,” Marcus says more gently. Griffin motions over to the cabinet against the wall, and as he does so, it comes to him.

He’s down, but he’s sure as shit not out.

*

Griffin can barely stand. He’s not going to be able to run, that’s a certainty. But he doesn’t need to be the impetus; as long as he and Marcus are connected they can jump together. With an arm around Griffin, Marcus is well able to move fast enough for both of them.

Before they make ready to go, Griffin insists Marcus hand him his phone, then promptly crushes it with the heel of his boot into the stone floor. Marcus has to give it to him—even half-conscious Griffin doesn’t miss a trick.

The pair of them crash down in a city alleyway—not behind Sainsbury’s. They’re not even in England. The humidity is the first clue; the smothering heat of a tropical climate. The next is the smell. It’s a cloying medley of drains, decaying vegetable matter and imminent rain. Marcus looks up at the sky. It’s thick with cloud. Then he looks down at the ground. Griffin is sitting on the dusty cement hugging his knees, his head hanging. He’s sweating already—his fringe clinging in dull stripes to his forehead.

Looking from side to side, Marcus can see the alley opens at one end only, onto a bustling street. The glimpses he gets of cars passing by are no clue to their whereabouts. Several brown-skinned people—some on foot, some on bicycles—appear then disappear from the gap between the buildings as they pass by. It’s too hard to tell from this distance what nationality they might be. Marcus is struggling to narrow it down past Latin America or just about anywhere in Asia.

There’s no more time for fucking about. They’re in a city, which is at least better than the desert or the middle of an ocean, but they’re overseas and, unsurprisingly, Marcus does not have his passport.

“Where are we?” Marcus growls.

“Kay kay.”

“No, it’s not okay.”

Griffin slumps further. Marcus crouches down and lifts Griffin’s face in his hands. “I could leave you here, in this alley.”

Griffin’s eyes are glazed and drifting. The swelling has gone down a bit around his left eye but the bruise is purpling. Marcus swallows back a twinge of guilt. It won’t help either of them.

Griffin blinks slowly and the corners of his mouth curl up. “Kota Kinabalu, also known as KK. Malaysia. North Borneo.” Marcus can see he has to force himself to swallow. Griffin adds, “Are you off then?”

“No.”

Griffin tilts his head back as if to motion to his left. It must hurt because he winces. “This is the Holiday Inn. It’s nice.”

Marcus pulls Griffin to his feet and has to hold him up as they take a slow walk into the hotel. When Marcus says, “Let me take care of this,” Griffin doesn’t object. It’s not like he couldn’t make a jump for it if he had to, despite being on the verge of collapse.

The lobby is opulent and air-conditioned. The dry coolness is an immediate balm. Marcus discreetly deposits Griffin on a sofa facing away from the reception desk and books a room using his credit card. They seem satisfied with his company ID after he gives them some bullshit about having lost his passport. The receptionist is kind and looks up the number and address of the British Honorary Consulate for him.

For a few seconds, Marcus considers that this is his opportunity. All it would take is a quick call or email and Special Ops could have someone fly in with 24 hours. He turns around to see the back of Griffin’s head lolling on the arm of the sofa—and he can’t do it. At the very least, he feels like he should give Griffin a fighting chance. He can take up the chase when he’s well again.

Once they’re in the lift, Griffin collapses against Marcus, his fist clutching his jacket in a vain attempt to stay upright. Marcus puts his arm around him, feeling his fever burning through both of their layers of clothing. “Nearly there.”

Griffin doesn’t make it half the length of the corridor before his legs give out. Marcus scoops him into his arms and carries him the last few metres. He tries not to make a show of it; Griffin’s legs may have gone but his acerbic wit will be the last thing to leave him, probably along with his final breath. Marcus doesn’t want to dwell on that being sooner rather than later.

He doesn’t need to. Because as he fumbles the key card in and out of the lock and kicks the door open, Griffin croaks quietly through a weak smile, “Just because you’re carrying me over the threshold doesn’t mean you get to have your wicked way with me.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not interested in your virtue.”

“My virtue’s long gone. I’m just not up to being buggered. Not yet, anyway.”

Marcus flushes—the heat lashing through him from his head to his toes. “Stop talking, Griffin. You need to rest.”

*

Griffin sleeps for what he believes is a long time. He stirs every now and then. Sometimes Marcus is there, sometimes he isn’t. When he gets thirsty he looks over to the bedside table and there’s a bottle of water, and a banana. Another time there’s a can of Yeo’s soy milk. Griffin reaches for the water. He remembers Marcus giving him medicine, coaxing it down his throat like he was nursing a sick child. He’s not sure, but Griffin thinks that Marcus lay down next to him for a while, perhaps when it was night time. He knows Marcus sponged him down with a cool cloth, because Griffin murmured that it felt good, even though he wanted to keep his mouth shut.

His dreams are weird and vivid and sometimes terrifying—though not every time.

One time, Griffin dreams of Marcus. Marcus is naked, and every inch of him is lit golden, as if he’s standing in the desert dawn. It’s freezing cold, when the sun peeps over the horizon, but Griffin is simmering hot. He feels the sweat trickle down his temple.

Marcus prowls over him and presses his weight onto Griffin’s body so that Griffin can hardly breathe. He feels Marcus slipping inside him, as he whispers against Griffin’s neck, “It’s going to be all right. I’m going to take good care of you.”

Griffin nods, without enough air in his lungs to speak. In his heart he believes Marcus, though his head, were it not so deprived of oxygen, might beg to differ. He’s not afraid, not for the first time in forever. He feels safe.

Griffin’s legs fall open and he feels his cock swell as Marcus swivels up inside him, brushing over his prostate. Marcus fucks slow and deep, his breath coming out in low grunts with every one of his unhurried pushes into Griffin. It seems to go on and on, and Griffin would beg Marcus to speed up, to fuck him faster, faster, faster but he won’t give the bastard the satisfaction. Griffin can take it for as long as Marcus gives it. Marcus can fuck him all night if he wants, and Griffin will never beg.

“Please.”

The voice in the dark, Griffin realises, is his own.

Griffin coughs and cracks open his eyes. The room is dusky—dim and beige. The sun is slicing in through a narrow gap in the curtains. Marcus is sitting by the side of the bed, wearing long shorts and a t-shirt. It’s a Lacoste—a fake.

“What can I get you?” Marcus asks. He pats Griffin’s arm, like he’s checking it’s really him.

Griffin has to think. He was dreaming about sex (nothing new there, only it’s not usually burly rugby-types that fuel his fantasies). _It was a dream, wasn’t it?_ He’s almost certain it was.

“I’m starving. And thirsty. And I think I stink.”

Marcus pulls Griffin up to sitting and hands him a bottle of water. “I’ll run you a bath. There’s a banana on the bedside table. You should eat it slowly. You haven’t eaten anything for two days.”

While Marcus disappears to the bathroom, Griffin peels the banana with shaking hands and wolfs it down. Then he drinks half the can of soy milk. It’s sweet and refreshing but the moment he sinks back into the pillows Griffin feels nauseous. Marcus, of course, chooses that exact moment to come back into the bedroom and regard Griffin through narrowed eyes. He doesn’t say anything, which is a relief, because Griffin’s all out of retorts at this present moment in time. He needs a piss and a bloody good scrub.

“Bath’s ready,” is all Marcus says. Then after a pause he says, “Don’t lock the door. You’re over the fever but you’re still weak.”

Griffin refuses the hand Marcus offers and stumbles the few steps from his bed to the bathroom. He closes the door, without locking it, and takes a long piss. It’s dark yellow and it reeks. Griffin flushes before taking a studious look in the mirror. He’s definitely not looking his best. It’s going to take more than a bath to sort out the half-starved wreck he’s become over the last two, or is it three days? He’s going to need a haircut and a few hearty meals. And Marcus has made a nice mess of his eye. Griffin thinks he might take a boat over to Manukan and sun himself on the beach for a week or so. Once he’s ditched Marcus, that is. Though, if Marcus keeps his word, Griffin considers that maybe he wouldn’t mind hanging about with him for a bit longer.

Griffin throws his pants in the bin, out of habit more than out of a sense of disgust at the rancid state they’re in. The dream, the one with Marcus in it, nudges at the periphery of his mind. He slides his middle finger into the crease in his arse and over his hole. It’s dry and tight and tingles at the touch. _Nothing_ has breached it for days. Thinking about his arsehole being breached as he eases himself down into the perfectly warm water, and about Marcus’ cock, makes Griffin’s own disused cock stir. There’ll be no seeing to himself in the bath though—

“It’s no use earwigging. I’m not having a wank,” Griffin calls out. He’s still hoarse, but Marcus hears him all right. Oh yeah, Griffin knows Marcus is only hanging about because he fancies him. Why else?

When Griffin emerges, scrubbed and feeling some way back to his old self, Marcus is reclined on the far bed, the one that Griffin wasn’t sleeping in, watching CNN. With Marcus’ head turned towards the television, Griffin feels not-so-subtly scrutinised. It’s ridiculous it makes him irked. He makes a show of dropping his towel—and let Marcus have an eyeful of that—before dragging out a fresh t-shirt with much more deliberation than is necessary when he only has two sets of clothes to choose from.

“Aren’t you going to be missed? At work?” Griffin asks.

“I called in sick.”

 _“Right._ How long do I have, before your lot come after me?”

Marcus glances over and as quickly looks away again. “A couple of days. Long enough for you to get your strength back.”

“Then let’s go out and get something to eat. Ever had stingray?”

“No, I can’t say I have.”

“Good. In that case then, you may buy me lunch.”

Marcus shakes his head and grins. Without wasting any more time, Griffin pulls on his pants and jeans, and runs his fingers through his hair.

*

Griffin’s pale and jittery and wary. He walks briskly with his shoulders hunched, his eyes darting back and forth from Marcus to the street, and frequently over his shoulder. Marcus can’t imagine where he’s got the energy from. It begs the question—what’s Griffin like when he’s on form? It’s no wonder that, up to now, he’s evaded capture, and murder.

Marcus walks alongside him, quickening his pace to keep up. He grits his teeth against the twinge in his thigh. From the purpose in Griffin’s stride, it’s apparent he knows exactly where he’s going.

Sandwiched between the sea and the wide street, lined on one side with hotels, apartment blocks and business buildings, are market stalls housed in colourful chalets. There’s a cornucopia of sights and sounds and smells, many of them unfamiliar to Marcus despite his travels when he was in the army. The late afternoon is bustling, the traders and customers in determined dance of barter and exchange.

Griffin walks past the market chalets to an open, tarmac-surfaced area bordered with rickety food stalls made from scaffold, ply wood and tarpaulin. Underneath, there are makeshift kitchens furnished with woks and portable stoves and all manner of food, some of it completely unrecognisable to Marcus. And he can’t read much of what’s written on the chalkboard signs propped against the metal supports on each stall.

Once they’re close enough, they’re accosted by vendors eager to ply their wares. “English?” asks a teenage boy, smile wide and eyes shining, his arms reaching out in an attempt to guide Marcus and Griffin closer to the ‘menu’.

Marcus is about to give him a polite rebuttal when Griffin waves him off and says something Marcus doesn’t understand. He scoots past several more stands and stops midway into the fray, in front of a large tank swimming with what Marcus does recognise (from the Sea Life Centre in Brighton) as stingray.

“Pick one,” Griffin says.

“Oh, any one will do.” Marcus turns to scan the rickrack of picnic tables and plastic chairs at the centre of the space, ostensibly to pick them out somewhere to sit.

Griffin flicks his hand against Marcus’ arm, sniggering smugly. “You’ve only eaten in the hotel, haven’t you?”

“Yes. I didn’t like to leave you.”

“Bullshit. Tourist. Look at the state of you.”

Griffin’s referring to Marcus’ hastily acquired ensemble: khaki shorts, pastel polo shirt and flip-flops. Marcus will admit, it’s not how he usually dresses. But he really didn’t want to leave Griffin for reasons he’s is loath to admit to himself, let alone spelling them out to Griffin. And it’s not like Marcus hasn’t eaten all manner of local fare, in conditions that make this current venue look positively pristine. It’s just been a while. Maybe he’s getting a bit soft—in more ways than one. The thought of that troubles him more than it should.

Griffin gets under Marcus’ skin like a bad itch. Marcus has been patient—patient enough it could potentially lose him his job. He grumbles, “Haute couture hasn’t exactly been my priority the last few days.” He glares at Griffin who actually has the decency to blush—if Marcus is not mistaken—though it could be the heat. Marcus steps towards the tank and peruses the stingrays. “There, that one,” he says to the man behind the counter.

“You needn’t worry. I’ve been buying food from these hawkers for years. You’re more likely to get food poisoning from the McDonalds.”

Marcus decides against a retort.

Griffin orders the rest of their meal for them and they head to a nearby table. He doesn’t look as perky as he did when they first headed out and he stumbles. Marcus instinctively reaches out and catches Griffin’s elbow. He pulls him out a chair, and if Griffin notices Marcus’ hand linger too long on his shoulder as he settles, he doesn’t say anything.

Their drinks arrive and Marcus relaxes back into the chair. This is the first time they’ve really been able to have a conversation. Griffin’s eye is still heavily bruised, but he seems able to smile freely as he recounts his last visit to this part of the world. Marcus can’t help but be enthralled, because for all the looking over his shoulder, Griffin seems to genuinely love the way he lives. That is, except for the way he constantly refers back to how carefree his life is, how he has no ties, no obligations. There’s something hollow in his laughter—loneliness. It’s something Marcus recognises, given he’s no stranger to it himself.

The stingray, Marcus is amused to discover, is very tasty. He’s negotiating the noodles with his chopsticks when Griffin says, out of the blue, “You were walking with a limp. What happened?”

Griffin hasn’t seen the scar beneath the long shorts Marcus is wearing, and given the circumstances of the last few days, there’s no reason to presume he’d have noticed Marcus limping before this afternoon.

“It’s an old injury. I was wounded in combat, in Afghanistan, before I joined Special Ops.”

Griffin raises his eyebrows as if in anticipation of the rest of the story. Marcus hasn’t had to recount it for some time and the recollection doesn’t sting like it used to.

“I was shot. My femur shattered. Out in the field like that, medical attention can be a bit random. The army medics did their best, picking out the bits of shattered bone, sewing me up. Gave the doctor’s something decent to work with when I got back to Blighty—”

“Ouch.” Griffin crinkles up his nose and Marcus can’t help but laugh. He hadn’t pegged him as squeamish.

“I was lucky I didn’t lose my leg. It doesn’t hurt much anymore—it’s just a bit shorter than the other one, hence the limp.”

The sun is in Griffin’s eyes when he looks up from his food, at Marcus. He squints into the light and grins, then gets back to the last of his noodles. He’s as relaxed as Marcus has ever seen him—he hasn’t looked over his shoulder for at least a minute and his legs have stopped their incessant jiggling under the table. Perhaps if Marcus had another few months with him, he might really get to know Griffin without all the barriers. As of this minute though, Marcus isn’t doing any better than catching glimpses, like tiny intermittent rays of sunlight piercing the leaf canopy of the Malaysian jungle. He’d really like to blast a hole up there and let him shine.

Griffin yawns, using his forearm to cover his mouth. He looks impossibly young, and in that moment, strangely vulnerable. Marcus doesn’t forget that Griffin is well able to take care of himself when he isn’t on death’s door. And that Griffin would have ditched him by now if he didn’t want Marcus around. So the fact that by hanging around with Marcus is putting Griffin at inordinate risk tells Marcus something he’s not quite sure he knows how to deal with.

It’s with no small amount of caution that Marcus reaches over and puts his hand over Griffin’s. Griffin doesn’t pull away, but eyes Marcus curiously. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to faint or anything,” he says. His voice is still hoarse and it peters off to a whisper before he finishes speaking.

“Let’s get a taxi back to the hotel. The TV’s not up to much, but there’s a half decent selection of films on demand.”

Griffin nods and Marcus sees him swallow.

As they leave the hawkers market, Griffin pauses. He puts an arm around Marcus’ waist and says, “Can we pick up some snacks and something to drink?”

“Sure.”

They cross the street to a small shop fronted with racks of neon t-shirts. Griffin walks straight past them towards the groceries at the back, quick and determined, like a shark through water. Marcus tries to follow, to manoeuvre past an old lady that’s inconveniently decided to block his path with her bony elbows and a basket full of dried noodles. When Griffin reaches the counter at the back, he glances over at Marcus, with a look on his face that tells Marcus everything he needs to know.

For a split second, Marcus thinks he should chase after Griffin. The notion passes as Griffin quickly turns, leaps over the counter and makes for the corridor that leads beyond the shop and probably out into an alleyway behind. When Griffin glances over his shoulder, his eyes desperate and watery blue, Marcus lifts his hand to wave. He murmurs, too late for Griffin to hear, “Good-bye.”

Marcus heads back outside to the street, thinking only of Griffin and not the monumental pile of shit he’s in. It’s hard to imagine how things could look any worse for him, if the truth were to make its way back to Special Ops.

It’s not until he’s half way back to the hotel, thinking about the way Griffin had only minutes before slipped his arm affectionately around Marcus’ waist, that Marcus reaches into his back pocket—and finds his wallet is gone.

*

For two weeks, Griffin hides away and convalesces in various sun-drenched resorts around the globe, drinking mai tais and mojitos, and thinking about Marcus. He resists the temptation to track him down. It would be easy enough, if he wanted to.

Ultimately, Griffin is curious about two things. First off, did Marcus really like him, or were the doe-eyes he was making at Griffin purely out of sympathy and/or guilt? Secondly, he’d love to know how Marcus explained his extended trip to Malaysia without making it patently obvious he let Griffin go. To that end, Griffin wonders if Marcus still has a job. It’s the second that piques his curiosity the most—it really is—because Griffin definitely isn’t plagued by the recollection of the dream where he’s being fucked by Marcus. And even if he were, he’s not so naive as to think it would ever be like that if they actually did hook up.

Griffin’s gained back the few pounds he lost and his skin is a shade bronzed. On top of that, the barber Griffin went to in Paris was overzealous. Griffin likes his hair on the wild side; it lets people know what to expect. This new, shorter do is far too controlled. His hair lies flat and untroubled, like it’s comfortable exactly where it is, and not trying to make a haphazard escape from his head.

Griffin wonders if Marcus would recognise him if he saw him now.

Standing outside Marcus’ flat out of sight—for the third time in a week—Griffin shivers against the chill in the air. He’s not spying on Marcus. It’s just that if he were to decide to knock it would be a bit awkward if some boyfriend or girlfriend answered Marcus’ door.

It starts to rain. Now would be a good time to get going, and Griffin pushes off, emerging from where he’s shrouded in shadow, out into the open. The street lights have come on and as if on cue, Marcus comes to his window and shuts his curtains. He doesn’t see Griffin, but Griffin sees him, in a white t-shirt and jeans. His heart skips a beat.

It always goes like this. Griffin will be the first to admit he can be a bit impulsive. Not suicidal, mind. And there’s nothing going to happen here that’s going to put Griffin in mortal danger—not when he thinks how hard Marcus worked to keep him alive, keep him safe, even when he didn’t need to. That’s got to count for something, hasn’t it? Griffin’s met enough people over the years to know you don’t put yourself out for someone, not to that extent, unless there’s either something in it for you, or ... you really like them. And Marcus might want to see him again, might be wondering how he is. Griffin should at least let him know he’s okay.

With a steeling breath, Griffin walks up the steps to the front door. He presses the buzzer and within a few seconds Marcus speaks over the intercom, “Hello?”

“I’ve got your wallet, if you want it back.”

“Griffin?”

Griffin’s not sure if Marcus sounds pleased or pissed off.

“Yeah. Are you going to let me in?”

The door clicks open and Marcus is out on the landing before Griffin’s made it to the top of the stairs. Marcus looks six inches taller than Griffin remembers him, looming over the banister. Griffin’s courage falters, evaporates almost entirely with his breath as he mounts the top step and says, “Did you miss me?”

Marcus’ expression is unreadable and he doesn’t answer the question. He holds the door open for Griffin and waves him in.

“What do you want?” are the first words to leave Marcus’ mouth. It pulls Griffin up short, because he remembers him as being, well, nicer (except when he was smashing Griffin’s face into the concrete and pouring his water away and threatening to let him die). A sudden sweat prickles over the back of Griffin’s neck.

He can’t explain why he wants to be here, why he missed Marcus of all people. He doesn’t always have an answer for everything. In this instance, he doesn’t have a good one anyway. Griffin shrugs, and hands Marcus the wallet. Marcus doesn’t even open it. He goes into the living room and puts it on the coffee table. Griffin follows. The place is neat and sparse, but Griffin sees the big flat screen television and the long sofa and thinks he could make himself quite comfortable if he didn’t feel so fucking awkward.

“You got me in a lot of trouble,” Marcus says as he walks over to the kitchen area and pulls a beer from the fridge. He follows with, “You want one?”

It’s rare, but Griffin feels out of his depth. He nods. Usually he can’t shut up when he’s nervous but now he can’t even say a ‘please’ or a ‘thank you’. He holds the bottle to his chest and looks at the floor.

Marcus walks into his space. Griffin wonders if Marcus can hear his heart thumping in his chest. Marcus says, “You look well. Your eye healed up okay.” This time Marcus’ voice is softer and Griffin dares to look up at him as he nods again.

When Griffin takes a deep breath in, it’s shaky and he hopes Marcus doesn’t notice, doesn’t hear it. He chases it with a swig of his beer, just in case. With a mouthful of Dutch courage having made its way down his gullet and into his fluttering stomach, Griffin shrugs and says, “It’s fine. I’m fine. Never been better. Of course, I had to take a little holiday after getting flu then being beaten to within an inch of my life—”

Griffin doesn’t get to say anything else, because Marcus takes the beer bottle from his hand, slides it onto the counter and hooks his hand around the back of Griffin’s neck. Marcus kisses Griffin hard and full on—Griffin has to open his mouth wide to suck in a quick gasp of air. He feels Marcus’ teeth as much as his mouth, and he’s sure his lip is bleeding.

Marcus doesn’t go slow; doesn’t ease his way into anything. Before Griffin can process it’s really happening, he’s bent over the back of the sofa with his jeans around his ankles and Marcus’ finger up his arse.

Low and serious, Marcus rasps, “You want it like this? You want me to fuck you?”

Griffin squeezes the cushion and tenses his stomach muscles and nods. He can see his reflection in the glass of the television and he can see Marcus, naked and glorious and looming. Griffin’s knees go weak as Marcus sucks bruising kisses into his neck.

Marcus strips Griffin and preps him without finesse. He pushes Griffin face down, onto his hands and knees, on that long, comfortable sofa, leaving Griffin feeling anything but. Griffin readily opened his legs for Marcus, he nodded his consent, but it all happened so fast. This isn’t what Griffin thought— _hoped_ it would be. He’s glad he’s lying prone, so that Marcus can’t see his face. He never planned on getting sentimental over a fuck. He never planned on wishing it felt more intimate.

The top of Griffin’s head is wedged into the arm of the sofa and every time Marcus drives into him he’s pushed forward. Griffin braces himself by pushing his hands flat either side of his head, and concentrates on relaxing into the burn and rub of Marcus fucking him. He wants to ask him to at least go slower, but he’s not going to give Marcus the satisfaction of knowing he can’t take it, can’t take his big dick pounding him.

It’s been a long time, more than a couple of years, since Griffin let anyone fuck him. And then it was a topping from the bottom situation. This is so far off what Griffin expected he’s completely thrown. Still, if the noises Marcus is making are anything to go by, he’ll be shooting his load soon enough and Griffin will be able to get the fuck out of here and forget this ever happened. When he can walk straight again, that is.

Griffin tries to breathe through it, to swallow down the high choking noises that push out of his throat every time Marcus fucks into him. His cock is limp between his legs—he can see it dangling there when he opens his eyes and looks down at his strung-taut body.

It comes as a surprise, when Marcus slows without coming, then stops moving his hips altogether. Griffin feels the weight of Marcus’ chest pressed over his back as Marcus leans in and kisses Griffin behind the ear. He says, “Hey, you still with me?”

Griffin squeezes his eyes shut again and whispers into the cushion, “Yeah. I’m good.”

Marcus’ hand closes loosely around Griffin’s dick and strokes him unhurried, up and down. “Looks like I’m not hitting the spot. Do you want to change position?”

“No, really, it’s good.”

“I want you to come for me.” Marcus asks gently, softly and that, with the stroking, sends a jolt to Griffin’s cock that has it swelling slowly but surely in Marcus’ fist. “Can you come for me, Griff?”

Griffin’s breath catches in his throat as he whimpers out, “Yeah. Just ...”

“What, what do you want?”

Griffin doesn’t know. He doesn’t fucking know what he wants, except this—his cock in Marcus’ hand. He just wants to be held, like that. He grips his hand tight around Marcus’ fist and pushes it down more firmly, all the way to the base of his cock. Marcus doesn’t need any more guidance. He starts moving his fist steady and strong, at a leisurely pace, while Griffin gets hard.

It’s good—it feels really good—better than anything they’ve done thus far. Griffin wants more, wants it harder and faster. He rotates his hips forward, into Marcus’ grasp.

While Griffin moves his hips away from Marcus, Marcus pulls his cock out slowly. Griffin sighs and the tension melts out of his shoulders. He dares to look over his shoulder to see Marcus pulling the condom off his cock. Next, wrapping his arm around Griffins’ chest, Marcus pulls Griffin upright, so that he’s kneeling in front of Marcus, back to chest.

“You should have said,” Marcus whispers as he kisses Griffin’s jaw, still wanking Griffin torturously slow.

“I didn’t know.”

“It’s all right to change your mind. Shall I keep going, like this?”

Griffin moves his arms back, lets Marcus take his weight, and holds onto Marcus’ hips. “Harder.”

Marcus pumps faster with one hand, sliding the fingers of his other under Griffin’s balls, all the time squeezing and rubbing. It makes Griffin’s balls swell and tighten and it almost takes him by surprise, how quickly he comes, his dick coughing out spunk like he hasn’t had an orgasm in months. He sure as shit hasn’t had one like that in a long time.

Marcus holds Griffin until he stops shuddering and stills. Then Griffin feels Marcus fisting his own cock. He turns his head, in time to see Marcus look at him. With a frown and a groan, Marcus comes all over Griffin’s back.

Marcus cleans Griffin up, turns him around and eases him onto his back, and settles on top of him, between Griffin’s legs. Griffin finds it hard, to keep looking at Marcus looking at him. It’s more disarming than being seen naked. He touches Marcus’ shoulder, traces his fingers over the muscles, concentrating on the path his fingers take like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“Stay,” Marcus says. He brushes the backs of his fingers over Griffin’s cheek and Griffin’s stomach flips.

“You got decent coffee? ‘Cos I don’t drink that instant shit.”

“Yes, Griff, I’ve got coffee,” Marcus says, pushing up onto his haunches. He pulls Griffin up onto his lap and wraps him in his arms.

Griffin doesn’t resist. He puts his arms around Marcus’ neck, and lets Marcus kiss him softly, tenderly, over his face, his ears and his neck.

*

Griffin sleeps curled on his side, with his back pressed to Marcus’ chest. When he falls asleep it’s like he has an off-switch, which almost completely shuts him down. He breathes quietly, and lies deathly still. Marcus whispers his name into the darkness, to check if he’s asleep or holding his breath while he thinks of something smart to say, just to let Marcus know he hasn’t let his guard down. But Marcus gets no answer, except for a snuffling noise.

In the morning, Marcus tugs Griffin from his cocoon of covers and kisses him awake. Griffin mumbles a protest into the pillow. It’s something new and charming, to find out Griffin is grouchy in the morning, regardless of whether he’s sick or well. For a few seconds, when he blinks awake and looks at Marcus, he’s warm and pliant and lets Marcus take a lingering look at him before he turns his head away. It’s progress—followed by slow kisses, open palms and easy smiles.

Marcus heads for the kitchen to make coffee and poke around in the cupboard for something he can offer Griffin for breakfast that’s slightly more enchanting than Cheerios. When he gets back to the bedroom, the bed is empty and for a split second Marcus’ heart plummets.

“You thought I’d gone, didn’t you?” Griffin says, grinning, as he emerges from the en suite bathroom, face scrubbed, pants on.

Marcus pulls him onto the bed, hooks his arm around Griffin’s neck and ruffles his hair. “Now why would I think that?”

Griffin laughs from deep in his belly. Marcus can feel it resonating up and through the both of them. When he quiets Griffin says, “I have to go soon.”

“I know. You can come back, whenever you want. Come through the front door though, eh? Getting someone out to re-plaster costs an arm and a leg around here.”

Griffin squeezes Marcus’ thigh, over his scar, and wriggles around in his arms until he’s straddling Marcus’ lap. His face drops to Marcus’ shoulder as he says, “It’s my birthday next week. Do you want to go somewhere?”

“Your way or my way?”

“My way.”

“I’d love to.”

This time, when he decides to leave, Griffin doesn’t sneak off. In fact, quite dramatically, he kisses Marcus good-bye and insists Marcus wave him off at the front door. He meanders down the street, and it’s all Marcus can do not to beg him to stay a bit longer.

When Marcus finally closes the door and heads back inside, he notices his disregarded wallet on the coffee table. He opens it up to find that not only is nothing missing, but that there are additionally two opera tickets wedged inside the bill fold—for Aida, at the Arena di Verona, in Italy.

Marcus takes them out and, like a fool, presses them to his lips and smiles.


End file.
